You better rap, my brother
says—he can
b-box his ass off.
Got DJ scratches and spins,
will drop it on the two
and four, the three and four.
Whatever you need.
Me posing my bars: My flows
are second to none, come here,
son. See how it’s done.
Wanted to be a rapper? Check.
Thought I was going to the NBA? Check.
Father went to prison? Check.
Brother too? Check.
Mother died when I was eight? Check.
Hung pictures of Luke Perry
on my bedroom wall?
What?
Yep, give me a bit, and I’ll sprinkle
some subjectivity on it.
I loved that dude, his whisper-voice, his lean.
Auntie worried on the phone:
Girl, he got photos of some white boy
all over his walls. Me rocking out
to Tom Petty’s “You Don’t Know How It Feels.”
Silent head nods do more
than throw shade.
All black people are fluent
in silence. Mangled Baldwin quote?
Let’s keep wrenching. Everybody’s
fluent in silence.
You know what
a switchblade glare means. No need
to read the look she gave me
as those white man’s lyrics
flung out my mouth.
from Poetry Northwest 12.2 Winter & Spring 2018More by Douglas Manuel from the library
Copyright © Douglas Manuel
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.